dash
Between the Trees

The spaces in between the trees,
Where spider-webs and mushrooms are,
So strangely still despite the breeze,
Encourage me to stop the car
               And lose myself within the lack
               Of tarmac, paving-stone and track.

Their pull is primal: come and climb,
Come probe the richly teeming mould.
From evolutionary time,
The invitation takes ahold
               Of instincts barely understood
               And summons me into the wood.

My foot grows heavy on the brake,
My heart is halfway to the trees,
My soul has had all it can take
Of civilized proprieties,
               Of politics, the internet
               And sushi sandwiches from Pret.

The silence when the engine dies
Is like the warning voice of God:
From here you cannot see the flies
Or tread the ground that, lightly shod,
               Will twist your ankle in a second.
               For what purpose were you beckoned?

Then the voice of common sense
Explains the enmity of trees:
Iím just a source of nutrients,
Iím prey to be enticed by these
               Deceitful spaces in between.
               The mould will mask where I have been,

So that the trap can be reset
For other drivers through the wood,
Who catch the call but miss the threat,
And wander in to stay for good
               Where spider-webs and mushrooms are.
               Why canít I start the bloody car?

Scott Woodland

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  Scott Woodland
would be pleased to hear them.


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